Give me your hand, oh little one!
Like children be we two;
Yet I am old, my day is done
That barely breaks for you.
A baby-basket hard you hold,
With in it cherries four:
You cherish them as men do gold,
And count them o'er.
And then you stumble in your walk;
The cherries scattered lie.
You pick them up with foolish talk
And foolish glad am I,
When you wipe one quite clean of dust
And give it unto me;
So in the baby-basket just
Are three.
All this is simple, I confess,
A moment piled with peace;
Yet loving men have died for less,
And will till time shall cease. . . .
A silken hand in crinkled one--
O Little Innocence!
O blessed moment in the son
E'er I go hence!
